The Stories That Weren't
by Draconian Scribe
Summary: An assortment of short stories, revelations, and dreams of the impossible – now compiled into a single anthology. Each entry takes on a separate challenge, with genres ranging from angst to ventures into the unknown. Enter, and rediscover love once more.
1. Imperative

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

**CHALLENGE: Write a fragment of a story that is made up entirely of imperative commands: do this; do that; contemplate the rear end of the woman who is walking out of your life. 500 words.**

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SHORT STORY #1: IMPERATIVE

* * *

Stop staring.

Look away.

Quit making a bloody fool out of yourself.

Remember that you're in the _library._

Lean back. Stretch out. Yawn as if you own the place and everything in it. Ignore the murderous glares of your classmates, especially _her._ Give them the two-fingered salute. Smirk at your mates as they snicker at how cool and confident you are. Return to your textbook. Turn the page. Reread it another fifty times without absorbing a single word.

Forget it. Snap the blasted book shut. Pack up your things. Let your followers know that you've had your fill of the common rabble. Say that you're heading back to the dormitories to rinse your hands of this filth. Sling your schoolbag over your shoulder. Get out.

Strut down the aisles. Put your books away. Take three steps past the shelf with the dusty compendium that no one but her would ever read. Turn left. Stifle the madness that's pounding against your chest. Wipe the clamminess from your hands. Remember to breathe. Swagger past her table and the lanky boor sitting beside her. Contemplate the pros and cons of decking the bastard straight in his pasty, freckled face.

Restrain yourself—barely. Quake as your blood boils and your vision blackens with envy at the despicable fondness that glistens in her eyes. Suffer the irony of witnessing the clot that has nothing bask in the glory of the one thing that you, the elitist, will never have.

Pull up a chair. Act as if you have every right to be there, even as she and her "friend" narrow their eyes at you in distrust. Wait for it.

Resist the urge to bolt when she finally stops scribbling her novel-length notes and demands to know what the hell you want. Hold your ground. Remember that you brought this upon yourself.

Banish your fears. Don't think about what your parents would say if they knew. Pay no heed to the prying eyes that surround you, awaiting your next move.

Remember what you're here for.

Open your mouth. Tell her the truth. Admit that you were wrong. Take back every cruel, twisted word you've ever said to her. Remind her that not everyone is as brave and good and strong as she is. Make her see that your time here is almost over and you just can't lie to yourself any longer. Say that she belongs with you.

Sneer instead. Give in to your bitterness. Give in to your cowardice. Spit hateful words at her. Pretend that it makes you feel better. Insult her family. Insult her friends. Insult her unruly hair without mentioning that it's one of the many things you love about her. Start a fight, because it's the only way that you'll ever have her undivided attention. Harass her until she hates you almost as much as you hate yourself. Walk away, and don't you dare look back.

Return to an empty room. Lie upon your bed. Search the ceiling for guidance. Write her letters that she'll never read. Burn them. Watch your courage shrivel up in flames.

Change.

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TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Absent

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

**CHALLENGE: Construct a character who is not present, who is off-stage for the entire piece. 800 words.**

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SHORT STORY #2: ABSENT

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The first time he heard the story of the monster that dwelled in the lake, he looked his friend in the eye and curtly told him to pass the salt.

"I'm telling you, mate, it's _real,"_ Theodore insisted. "I saw it with my own eyes!"

After supper, Theo hauled him down to the shoreline and pointed him towards a scattering of greenish, eerily luminescent scales, accompanied by jagged ruts along the sand, suggesting that something large and heavy had been dragged across it.

"There was a girl swimming in the lake the other night," Theo recalled. "About our age. Brunette. Bloody gorgeous little thing. And _naked._ Reckon she might've been a wee bit daft in the head. She just kept swimming around in circles, singing to herself. When the old man told me to get my arse out here and tell her to quit her trespassing, she dived down and this _huge,_ snakelike _thing _rose up out of the water!" He wriggled his arms in an absurd attempt to illustrate the motion. "It slithered after her, and two ticks later, they were _gone."_

Theo eventually wandered off to other topics, such as the bandy-legged, ginger cat with the squashed nose that was always skulking about. After loudly proclaiming that they should truss it up and feed it to the beast, Theo sauntered back inside, leaving him alone to ponder the waves, and the fate of the dauntless, mysterious girl that floated underneath.

* * *

When he awoke the following morning, the sun was just starting to climb over the inky surface of the lake. Theo continued to snore away, so he abandoned his friend and snuck back down to the shore.

True, he'd never actually seen the girl, but the notion that someone had died in these waters, so close to where he slept, haunted his dreams. He squinted at the waves, knowing it was likely futile.

He swore that there was a suspicious ripple out in the distance, but before he could even consider making a run for it, a screech-like yowl on his right knocked him onto his bum and scared the living shite out of him.

It was the stray puss that was always prowling about, rummaging for scraps. He shooed it away, only to narrowly avoid its hissy swipe. The furry menace then resumed stripping the bones of a plump fish that was almost thrice its size.

It couldn't possibly—no, someone had to be feeding it! But who? A person would have to be blind, mad, or a bleeding saint to take pity on that hideous, nasty creature…

Scowling, he bent down to inspect the damage on his clothes and swatted away the disgusting mats of fur that still clung onto the fabric. He'd gotten most of it, except for a longer, thinner strand that hung loosely from his shin.

But it wasn't fur.

It was hair.

Brown. Soft. Lustrous, with a distinct curl. Its scent was a pungent blend of damp fur and the sticky-sweet dankness of the lake.

* * *

Two nights and seven nightmares later, he'd arrived at a conclusion. There was no sodding lake monster. There was no dead girl. In fact, she was very much alive, and he was going to prove it. He did _not _fancy being made a fool of and he _refused _to remain chronically sleep-deprived for the duration of his stay. She was nothing but a filthy little prankster, and he was determined to suss her out.

Every evening, he waited by the shore, and every morning, he woke up to find that she'd fed and groomed the horrid cat that everyone else wished dead and had left all of the books from his knapsack in an alphabetised pile by the water, the pages ruined with her soggy handprints and her favourite quotes highlighted with algae. Where did she even find the time to read them all?

On certain days, she left him odd little trinkets, undoubtedly designed to provoke and confound him, such as a purple shell or a dried underwater plant. How the hell was he supposed to interpret these?

As the days passed, it became clear that he was no longer satisfied with the 'how.' He needed to know _why. _Why did she do it? Why didn't she leave? What did she see in that blasted cat? And why was she hiding?

"You're barking," scoffed Theo. "It's not a _she, _it's an _it! _And _it _is a shitting sea serpent, dossing down in my lake, yet here you are, _enticing _it like it's some bloody mermaid!"

That was when he realised the answer.

He waited until sunset and threw himself into the lake. He kept his eyes open for as long as he could, but he never saw her.

* * *

He awoke with a gasp, coughing and shivering from the clamminess of his clothes. He was alone, save for the tinkling laughter that sang in his ears and the tingle of a kiss that lingered upon his lips.

She was real—of that, he was certain.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Intimacy & Teacher

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

**CHALLENGE: 1) Write a scene between two people in love who are so attuned to each other they can, in a sense, read each other's minds. 2) In a short scene, have one character teach another character something that changes the _teacher. _700-900 words.**

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SHORT STORY #3: INTIMACY & TEACHER

* * *

This was officially the worst weekend ever. When he first put the words "holiday," "no class," and "alone time with Hermione" together, camping out in the godforsaken wilderness like a pair of troglodytes was the last thing he expected.

Over the past few weeks, Hermione had been unnervingly tolerant of his (what she deemed to be) "beastly behaviour." Every time he'd pinched her arse in lecture, doodled on her notes, or made snide remarks about anything and everything around them, she'd done nothing but simper at how _excited_ she was for the weekend.

He was certain that she was going to make him suffer in the most barbaric way possible, and he was right.

"You didn't hear a word I just said," Hermione flatly observed, narrowing her eyes in accusation.

"You're brilliant, I'm pathetic, and I better not fuck this up or you won't speak to me again for the next twenty-four hours," he recited, rolling his eyes.

"That was _not _what I said—"

"No, but it's what you meant," he countered.

"Very well," she huffed, "if _you're _such an expert on building fires, then I'll just leave you to it, shall I?"

Wait, _what?_

"Hermione," he stammered, "you can't possibly expect me to—"

"I'm off to get more wood," she announced, bounding to her feet. She promptly turned and rummaged through her bag for several sinister seconds before whirling back with a cheerful "Here you are!" and tossing a small box into his pleading hands. "Be back in a tick!" She spared him a single, chillingly innocent smile before skipping off into the forest, giggling to herself.

The message was clear. If he didn't get the job done by the time she returned, he would forever be branded as a complete and utter failure of a man.

He tugged anxiously at his collar. Blast, it was so _cold! _And dark! And _filthy! _His hands were all frozen and sweaty, and he could barely get a grip on this flimsy little stick… What did she call this again? A hatch? He flipped the box over and identified the black strip that Hermione had mentioned at some point during her blathering. He peered suspiciously at the band and poked it with the bulbous head of the stick.

Nothing happened.

He prodded it harder and gave it a little rub.

Still nothing happened.

"_FUCKETY BOLLOCKS!" _he roared.

Shitting hell, what he wouldn't give to use his—

_Don't even think about it, _he could practically hear her shrilling from afar. If she were here, she'd still be lecturing him in that bossy, condescending tone of hers before finally dismissing him as a hopeless case and crying herself dry from her own mirth.

_NO!_ _Sod you, Granger, and your stupid Muggle contraptions! THIS ISN'T OVER! _He gritted his teeth and took a vicious slice at his target, only to topple backwards, squawking in terror as the wanking little stick flew into the pit and burst into flames.

He did it. He actually did it! HE HAD SUMMONED FIRE! HE WAS MASTER OF THE ELEMENTS! He was—

Cripes, was that a _stain? _

He quickly peeled his shirt off and draped it over a nearby log, mournfully swatting the dirt away with leaves.

"Gods above, you actually did it!" gasped Hermione, who had emerged from the trees with an almost comical expression of shock upon her face. He thought he should feel insulted by the implication that she'd _expected _him to fail, but the unmistakable pride that shone in her smile—her _real _smile—easily dispelled him of the notion.

She flung an armful of branches onto the ground and raced towards him with a squeal of delight, only to come screeching to a halt. "Ruddy hell!" she shrieked. _"What happened to your—?"_

He blinked at her for a moment before finally registering her flustered gestures and spastic attempts to avert her eyes. "No, I _refuse _to put my shirt back on," he leered in response to her unspoken plea. "I'm sweating cobs out here. You wanted a raging fire? You got it."

She blushed furiously, putting both hands on her hips and retorted, "Unlike _you,_ you ignorant prat,_ I _was thinking along the lines of starvation and hypothermia—"

He groaned. "Merlin, woman, you know I like it when you talk dirty to me—"

"Go bugger yourself!" she snapped, tearing her eyes away from their roaming descent.

"Honestly, I don't see why you're getting your knickers all in a twist. You've seen me shirtless before. Several times, in fact," he grinned, flexing his chest muscles.

"But it's—you—_immodesty!" _she spluttered incoherently.

"'Immodesty'?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I'm afraid that after our little incident last week, I've quite forgotten what that word means."

He didn't even need to see her face to know that _she _knew _exactly _which incident he was referring to. She flushed positively maroon, even as her eyes darkened and stalked his every movement.

"So," he began, unbuckling his trousers and sliding them to the ground, "I reckon you've discovered a few new uses for campfires now, eh? Efficiency and not letting valuable resources go to waste, or some other shite—"

"Shut it! I hate you," she hissed, even as her hands flew back to unclasp her skirt.

"Love you too, Granger," he smirked against her lips.

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TO BE CONTINUED


	4. The Gap

**DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.**

**BETA READER: silverbluewords**

**CHALLENGE: Write a short scene—200 to 300 words. Leave a gap and skip ahead to another short scene with the same characters you were studying before the gap. 500 words.**

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SHORT STORY #4: THE GAP

* * *

The end was always Hermione's favourite part of the story. Conflicts were resolved, order was restored, and everything simply fell into place—at least until that evil _git _snatched her book out of her hands and pegged it down the corridor, cackling with glee and sneering back at her in a blatant dare to retaliate.

_"Honestly!" _she huffed, crossing her arms and stomping after him. She _refused_ to take part in his petty little games. "Malfoy, you snivelling prat! Give it back!"

"No, I don't think I will," he drawled over his shoulder as he darted around the corner. "In fact, I reckon I'll leave this somewhere for you to find, say, like down the loo, where the rest of this tripe belongs," he taunted, flapping her book behind him in a rude imitation of flatulence.

"You _wouldn't!" _she shrieked, lunging forth and tackling him to the ground. He gave a shrill yelp, and she seized the opportunity to straddle his scrawny arse, wrestle her book back, and smack him upside the head with it, all the while cursing and spitting in his stupid, pointy, ferrety face—

"Ms Granger!" came Professor McGonagall's horrified gasp. "And Mr Malfoy! Explain yourselves, both of you!"

"HE/SHE STARTED IT!" they both snarled at the same time.

"That is _quite _enough!" scolded the older woman. "Mr Malfoy, you should consider yourself fortunate that I will not be notifying your father of this incident. And you, Ms Granger, I would never have expected such unruly behaviour of you. Back to your dormitories, _immediately."_

"Yes, Professor," they muttered in unison, gingerly returning to their feet.

Yet as soon as Professor McGonagall was out of earshot, he turned to her and smirked, "By the way, Granger, nice hair."

Curiously, she reached up, only to find that her hair ribbon was missing. Instead, there was a massive glob of chewing gum stuck to the ends of her curls. _"MALFOY!" _she screamed after his retreating footsteps.

* * *

Hermione stared at the crinkled pages, unable to decipher the blotted ink through the tears that burned her vision. She no longer cared about the ending. They were all the same.

She closed her eyes and gradually let all of her childish fantasies tumble out of her hands.

"Foolish Granger, always has her conk wedged inside a book," Malfoy snickered, scooping up the fallen tome.

He didn't even bother trying to escape anymore. He simply wiggled it over her head.

"Give it back, you wanker!" she hissed, leaping and flailing in an unsuccessful attempt to swipe her book back.

"No, I don't think I will," he drawled. "In fact, I reckon I'll leave it somewhere for you to find, say, like down the front of my trousers—"

"Grow up, Malfoy," she snapped, marching off with a dignified sniff. "You can just keep the ruddy book."

"By the way, Granger," he called after her. "Nice hair."

She peered over her shoulder and saw that he was still there, grinning as he held on to the book that was, for all intents and purposes, now his. "Thanks, Draco," she smiled back.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED


End file.
